


and red trickled from the cracks in my body

by Weirdowhotalkstoofast



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Gen, Morty trips balls while Rick shoves his guts back into his body, that's a good summary of this fic, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:20:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdowhotalkstoofast/pseuds/Weirdowhotalkstoofast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bleeding in the brain is accompanied by the taste of metal on the tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and red trickled from the cracks in my body

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to do a gore fic but then it ended up about Morty getting high on painkillers while he has intestinal surgery. Done by Rick. 
> 
> Oh well, maybe next time.
> 
> Also this fic gets...a bit abstract?
> 
> I hope you enjoy this trash.

They tumbled out of the portal. Rick huffed about Morty’s stupidity as Morty ripped off his shirt to stare at his stomach in utter horror

Morty’s abdomen was split wide open, layers of skin and muscle parting to reveal glistening dark red entrails that spilled out and tumbled onto the floor with a wet splat, squirming and pulsating with every beat of his fluttering heart, lovely crimson rivers trailing down his legs and dripping to the floor, the pitter patter of the drops sounding just like that time he left the faucet open just a  _tiny_ bit and he heard the drops pitter patter down onto the metal of the sink, pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat and and and  _Morty_?

Morty’s whimpering and crying, tears and snot running down his face, trying to shove his innards back into his body, back into where they _belong,_ hands shaking from panic and blood loss. He’s panting, trembling, knees on the floor, body arched over the mess his intestines made all over the garage floor, trying to calm down but why why  _why are my guts out Rick? Help oh my god, Rick, Rick, please help help they all over the floor oh my god—_

And Rick is  _cooing._ He’s cooing at the blood and the intestines spilling out of the open rip in Morty’s body. He’s _cooing_ and Morty doesn’t understand _why the fuck is he so calm._ He’s kneeling in the slowly growing puddle of blood and softly laughing at Morty’s fumbling attempts to cram his organs into his belly. He scoops up a handful of Morty’s guts and starts talking about the beauty of the snakes and serpents moving and breathing in his hands, the absolute perfection of the pulsating anatomy that’s smearing blood over his fingers.

_“J-just look at this, Morty! It’s-it’s not every day you get to see your guts exposed to the outside world, MmERGGHHorty. Oh, you-you want them back inside? Don’t worry, Morty. Grandpa’s gonna- is gonna fix you right up. J-just give me a second to get some painkillers.”_

Rick slowly lowered Morty to lay on the floor while he gathered medical supplies moved his workbench nearer the crying boy on the floor. Morty is gasping, his eyesight beginning to blur, shapes are reduced to blobs and colors smear across his vision, a carnival of swirling shades and splashing light. A blackness eats away the edges of his hazy, dizzying world, threatening to swallow all of those twirling colors and pretty lights Morty has begun like. He whines and recoils from the darkness, clutching to the blurry lights and shades that pulse in tandem with the bass in his ears. Hands grasp at his sweaty face, turning it to the side as he twitches in a futile attempt to squirm away from the contact.

A small sting makes itself known at side of Morty’s neck, a needle piercing through his dermis, epidermis, and subcutaneous layers to the carotid artery, and, for a moment, glowing blue lights up the network of capillaries and vessels in his neck and face. There’s another brief sting at the crease of his elbow but the sensation of a needle burying itself under his skin doesn’t fade. The void recedes, its assault on his fragile sense of self fading, and Morty relaxes against the concrete floor, the coldness soothing his sweltering skin. Faintly, he can hear Rick’s muffled voice mutter to him as lean arms scoop up his thin body and settle him on a flat surface Morty could not recognize as the work bench or a table.

He can hear Rick speak to him as he hovered over Morty’s quivering form.

_“M-mEERRGGHHHorty. Your guts are all, all messed up so I can’t just cram them back in. I’m-I’m gonna have to do some minor surgery and-and I need you to stay still.  Don’t fucking move. At all. You-yoou move and-and I might yank out your colon.”_

Morty _wants_ to move, wants to ask Rick why he feels so weird, but his arms and legs are tingly and stiff; it feels a little funny to move, even a twitch of his fingers sends a shock of electricity up to his brain. It doesn’t quite hurt, but it’s surprising enough that Morty doesn’t try to move again. He’s not sure what Rick injected into him (painkiller? sedative? hallucinogen?) but now the swirling colors are glowing, twisting, snapping _,_ _crawling_ into his eyes, slipping in through dilated pupils, and they’re burrowing into his brain, munching on the gray matter and he can taste the iron at the back of his mouth.

_Bleeding in the brain is accompanied by the taste of metal on the tongue._

Bleeding in the brain in the heart in the lungs in the stomach in the liver small large entrails colon bleeding into blue red snakes and serpents that slither over and around each other in his belly and now they’re all out, hissing and cold and throbbing like the heart caged in his chest, his small pale chest that’s shuddering one slow breath in out one at a time until the diaphragm decays or the nerves that tell him to breathe wither and die or the pneumonia that’s been choking his lungs for the last month finally kills him and he dies in a worn bed in the solace of his room alone and at peace; the peach tree in the backyard slowly loses its leaves and suddenly Rick is tugging him along by the hand and telling him what a dumb fuck he is as they sip cold sodas and smoke quality blunts alone together but he can see others in the distance because he left one world and stepped over to the Other and saw Rick flipping him off and laughter echoes in his ears.

 _That’s one way it could go._ A voice is whispering to him but Morty can’t comprehend what it’s saying.

Rick is above him, wearing gloves up to his elbows with his sleeves pushed up, blood coating the latex in a red sheen. The yellow light of the flickering ceiling bulb glared down on both of them but only Morty is blinded. Rick’s face is shadowed, the center of his face darkened by the absence of light. Morty can see the sheen of sweat glisten on Rick’s brow and feel how the warmth of his sour breath puffs into the air for a moment before dissipating. The whispers of a raspy, growling voice spin ‘round and ‘round his head as they eject themselves into his ear canals and bounce off his tympanic membrane unheard.

He’s underwater, the water warping his vision and dulling his hearing; there are ripples in his vision and the only thing he can truly hear is the beating drum in his head, the slowing heartbeat that throbs in his innermost ears is steady, slow and-and

he breathes in and his ears _pop_.

A cacophony of sound ( _too loud too much bright hard nonono)_ rushes in, stabbing his brain with bright noise (it’s only Rick talking and him breathing music playing in his ears so why is it so _loud_ ), and suddenly Morty _jerks._

Rick growls and snaps at Morty, irritated and disrupted by the sudden movement.

**_“Morty.”_ **

He doesn’t register his name so much as he does the tone in Rick’s voice. The snarl, the warning to stop moving and listen and _obey_ makes his relaxed spine straighten and stiffen his body into something like a soldier at attention. Shallow pants made Morty’s chest (so small and pale) rise and fall quickly but slightly. Rick mumbles (he’s always mumbling something) and returns his attention to Morty’s split open belly.

His eyesight is blurring again but this time it’s the salt water in his eyes that making his world tremble and twist and curl around his head his brain like a snake, a serpent (in his belly) wrapped around its prey. He’s not hurting but the tears come anyway because isn’t it funny how he’s a dead boy waiting to be buried?

He can’t feel anything-no, that’s wrong. He can feel how Rick moves inside of him, gloved hands smoothly gliding against his slick insides. The smooth muscles of his intestines can’t perceive how Rick’s thin hands are holding them and shifting them and gently pushing them down back into Morty’s open body but the walls of Morty’s abdomen can feel the pressure of Rick’s fingers pushing and teasing his insides apart and together again and the settling of his innards back into place. It’s almost a soothing thing to feel how gentle and slow Rick is being with his entrails.

Morty tries to focus on those feelings of pressure and the smooth gliding of Rick’s gloved hands against his insides but suddenly his world of sound is submerged in water again, a high whine takes the place of Rick’s mumbling words and Morty can see a thousand eyes open as his own close against the blinding light of the flickering ceiling bulb.

Spheres and snakes of colored smoke and hydrogen atoms are spinning, dancing, melding and bursting into fireworks of light, melting into the still, quiet earth and flowers and trees spring up for a single moment before they wither and die and feed the still, quiet earth below and a thousand beings _become_ in the death of one (of two) and Morty is standing is a white white room.

_You thought you were dead so you killed yourself in a foolish attempt to live again._

A spear impales his chest and the white walls begin to bloom with color and life, roses and spider lilies splattering across its wall, an invisible painter decorating the plain wall with life. It’s a beautiful masterpiece with arching paint strokes and dotting sprays of crimson, the scene an endless field of flowers with still bodies lying on top of beds of bleeding flora.

Scarlet poppies _burst_ from Morty’s mouth as he stumbles to the floor on his knees and claws at the spear point poking out of his chest. He’s choking on the vines and leaves growing and shooting out of his throat, the roots anchoring in his lungs and stomach. He bites down on the stems filling his mouth, bitter liquid slipping down his esophagus and turning into an acid that eats his stomach and body. The red flowers wither and petals fall to the floor. A hole begins to open in his navel and blue red snakes slither out and bite at his chest, venom congealing the blood in his veins.

He’s choking on poppies with a spear in his chest and a hole on his stomach that vipers and cobras slip out of to kill him slowly with their hatred and wrath. He’s choking bleeding breathing falling becoming dying dying _dyingdyingdying **dyingdyingdying**_ \--

_Choking on your life’s blood. Ah, how humorous. What had kept you alive for so long now kills you._

His eyes close and a thousand more open in their place. Hands grab him at his arms, legs, face, stomach and they’re tugging pulling scratching clawing and they’re _ripping him apart_. They’re whispering to him, the whispers crawling into his ear canal like maggots, slimy and itching and disgusting.

_Don’t you remember when Rick killed you a thousand times over and still you crawled back to him because you know both of you have no one else but each other._

And a high-pitched laugh shrieks its amusement, grating and repeating, the vibrations traveling all the way down to the spongy marrow core of his broken bones.

_This is the time of your life where you can accomplish anything!_

He’s in a carpet store, sitting behind the counter of the shop on a hard wooden stool that makes his ass sore. His back hurts and his eyesight is fuzzy even with the glasses on. He’s wearing a brown suit. It’s stiff but somehow familiar and comforting. He’s been here before, hasn’t he?

A phone rings. He picks it up.

“H-Hello?”

A monotone voice asks dully, “Excuse me, sir, but you have any off-white Persians?”

He looks around. He spots some blue and red rugs but not much else. They seem to waver in a nonexistent breeze. He pauses. What was he looking for again?

“Sir?” _Oh, right._

“No, I’m sorry,” he answers. “We’re all out of off-white Persians.”

“Oh, what a shame.” The voice responds dramatically. “The groom married a—”

The carpet store melts into the living room. The T.V is on, some nonsensical commercial playing, while Morty sits in the lap of someone taller than him with his body is wrapped in the embrace of a pair of lean, strong arms. Someone is nuzzling the side of his neck, the brushing of a slightly cold nose against the soft hairs of the nape of his neck makes him shudder and giggle a bit.

He tries to look up or turn around to see who is making his neck tickle. He can’t turn his neck more than a few inches for some reason but he manages to glimpse a flash of grey and pale blue. After a few futile minutes of craning his neck, Morty settles into the chest of the person holding him.

Somewhere, a steady beat is resonating, the bass tingling his teeth and making the walls of the living room shake a bit, the pictures of family and smiles and memories clattering and bouncing against the plaster walls with every tremor of vibration.

They watch the television switch from commercial to a program that has no characters or settings or plot; it’s static and shadows dancing and playing behind a screen of glass, spinning talking fighting. The harsh staccato crash of the white noise makes Morty forget what reality he’s in, makes him forget what’s real and what’s a dream. They stay like that for an amount of time Morty cannot accurately measure. A minute, an hour, a day could pass by and Morty would have not known the difference.

“Morty,” A scratchy voice rasps, low and grumbling. Thin fingers tap against his stomach.

This time, Morty can turn and face whoever’s holding him. It doesn’t surprise him to see Rick but he’s confused why Rick has him in his lap.

“ _You’re-You’re a real fucking pain in the ass, you know that MmERRGHHorty?_ ” Rick sneers and pinches Morty’s cheeks between his thumb and index finger, callouses scraping his skin before pressing down.

Morty shrugs off the jab and Rick’s fingers, far too used to this treatment.

Rick huffs at Morty’s lack of response.

“But you’re my pain in the ass, ya little shit.”

Morty smiles. Then frowns at the sight in front of him.

Rick is decaying. His hair turned completely grey, then white. His skin pales and becomes almost translucent as it shrivels and thins on a corpse. His eyes are sinking in their sockets and skin sloughs off in sheets, revealing shiny red muscles that flex as Rick tries to move, to talk as he rots and falls apart in front of his grandson.

Morty’s heart shudders in his chest.

The static begins to flicker to black as the shadows begin dominate the dance of play and existence with their partner of chaotic static and the bass beating in the background slows to a low thrum of vibration.

Soon, there’s nothing more of Rick than white white bones and dust on the couch. Morty holds an ulna in his grasp for a moment before letting it fall from his palm to tumble with its brethren into a useless pile of carbon-based macromolecules.

He stands and a fibula cracks under his foot. He winces at the sound.

“You thought ‘Rick and Morty forever’ would be a thing, right?”

He turns and see Rick’s skull resting on the armrest of the couch. It doesn’t have any facial expressions, as the bone that creates it cannot flex more than a millimeter but the way the skull holds itself, the way it speaks to him, simply screams _I am a dream._

“What?”

“Morty, why are you such a fucking idiot?”

Morty said nothing. It would be idiotic to argue with a talking skull in a drug hallucination. He thinks he can see the stupid skull smirk even though it has no lips or muscles to smirk with.

The magical skull of wisdom and assholery speaks again and the walls tremble and shake from an unfelt earthquake.

“ _Morty, you need to wake up_.”

“Why?”

“I’m finished cramming your stupid guts back inside of you but your pulse is too slow to wake you up. I gave you too much of that sedative. I’m going to give you epinephrine to speed up your heart but I don’t wanna pump any more shit in you that might fuck with the alien sedative’s chemical composition. And you can’t let me do all the work, you dumb fucker.” Its jaws remain open, giving Morty a clear view of the blue eyeball seated on its tongue. The eyeball lolls at him, rolling back and forth on the skull’s still intact tongue.

“I’m dying?”

The skull slams its teeth close, the eyeball slicing in two as a click of bone resounds in annoyance. One half of the eyeball bounces off the armrest onto the floor as the other half is swallowed by the talking skull.

“No, you’re just in danger of going to sleep for a _very_ long time, Morty.” It huffs. “No fucking shit you’re dying. You’re on the edge of OD’ing on the stupid painkiller I gave you. That’s why I need you to _wake the **fuck up, MORTY.**_ ”

With every word the skull screams, the room cracks and falls apart like a broken mirror, colored fragments of the scene flying apart and crashing to an unseen ground.

Morty’s falling too, arm and legs flailing wildly. The shards of the living room fly by him and slice open his cheeks and hands. His back slams into a flat surface, his head hitting the floor with a painful crack. He can taste blood and he’s sure at least ten of his teeth cracked from the sudden impact. He squeezed his eyes close and tried to concentrate on not passing out. At the edge of his consciousness, he could hear whispering in a language that sound like gibberish and white noise become louder, the speakers coming closer and closer to him.

_A thousand eyes close as his own open to see the beauty and before him._

He forced his eyes to open and look up at the strange spectacle above him.

Shifting globs of a glowing, multicolored liquid hover around him, melting and building to reform abstract shapes Morty sometimes sees in modern art.  Deformed faces, melting hearts, broken spheres, pleated sheets, they went on and on. Morty couldn’t tear his eyes away. They were mesmerizing to look at. Suddenly, they all changed into perfect replicas of animal sculptures, a deer, a tiger, and some eldritch abomination that made Morty’s eyes want to bleed, before shifting into humanoid- like figures.

Each of them looked the exact same with the basic template of a human with a blank face, thin limbs that ended in points instead of hands or feet, and glowing skin with shifting patches of orange, pink, blue, and green. They hovered around Morty’s prone body, bending down and tilting their heads at him, occasionally poking his legs with the points their arms ended at. Morty could hear something like crumpled up static come from the place on their faces where their mouths should be.

_“O edrych, y peth gwirion y effro bellach.”_

_“Peidiwch â bod yn ei olygu. Rydych yn gwybod yn humies dim ond dod yma os ydyn nhw'n uchel iawn neu kinda farw.”_

_“Neu'r ddau.”_

They looked like they were arguing, pointed limbs gesturing erratically, heads jerking, and the strange white noise becoming louder as the conversation progressed.

  _“Rwy'n credu dylai Rydym yn ei daflu i'r llall."_

_“Pam? Dwi ddim yn meddwl hwn un am fynd yno.”_

_“Peidiwch â humies holl eisiau mynd yno?”_

_“Dim ond pan fyddant yn hen, dwp.”_

Morty didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Uncertainty and confusion were not unfamiliar feelings to him but he would really like to wake up now and he didn’t feel like dying today.

He tried to say ‘hello’ but it came out more like, “arrgGGHHHUGGHHH.”

All three of the multicolored beings looked down at him and the glare of a million suns rained onto Morty’s eyes and brain. It was if the eyes of mighty gods had directed their focus into examining his soul and were considering if they should annihilate it or free it for the slight possibility of fleeting entertainment in their almost infinite lives.

Morty regretted his birth.

The glare died down to a simmer and the warm feeling on sunlight on the skin enveloped Morty like a blanket taken right out of the dryer.

_"Hei, credaf yn symud. Hynny'n golygu mae'n dal yn fyw neu rhywbeth iawn?"_

Morty heard buzzing and static. “W-what?”

One of the beings, colored mostly orange, tilted their head at him then formed a hole on the lower half of their face.

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that not a lot of humies come here. We’re not, well, xe over there,” Orange pointed to a pink-colored being off to the side, “Isn’t used to talking to three-dimensional beings.”

“Actually, they’re just an asshole.” Another one, blue, said with a shrug of their shoulders.

“Hey!”

 _Three-dimensional? Oh shit_. Morty sat up and rubbed the back of his throbbing head.

“Am-am I in the fourth dimension or-or something?”

“Fourth dimension? Nah, you’re just chilling in the space between worlds or planes or whatever.” Blue waved their arms around, pointing to the emptiness around them. “This is kinda like what humies call purgatory. But it isn’t. Somehow. I’m not sure actually. How did you get here?”

“I-I, uh, my grandpa gave me some alien painkillers or sedatives or something but he gave me too much so now I’m tripping balls and I think I might be dying.”

Morty looked at his hands. “Is-is this real? Am I dead or is this another hallucination?” He groaned and put his head between his knees. “I don’t know anymore, man.”

Pink whistled. “Damn, you must be tripping on acid or something if you’re questioning if the reality you’re in is real or a hallucination.”

“ _Is_ this a hallucination?”

“No. This is real. Except it’s not. Don’t think about it too much. Either way, you’re not dreaming because that implies you _will_ wake up.”

“I’m _dead_?”

“No, but you’re not exactly alive either.” Orange explained. “Don’t worry, we won’t push you to the Other. It’s all up to you from here.”

“How do I…get back?”

Pink smiled a smile that chilled Morty to the bone. His apprehension only grew as he watched blank canvas of the being’s face begin to melt like candle wax, molding itself into something new, something _terrifying_. His eyes widened and he could only cower in terror as Pink grinned with newly formed shark teeth and shoved their shifting face inches away from Morty’s white, sweaty one.

Morty watched as yellow hair shot from the top of their head and pink skin paled into a shade far whiter. “You wanna know how to get back, Morty?”

The hair shortened and darkened into brown, the bone structure resembling something more masculine. “It’s not very hard, really.”

Bright orange locks spout suddenly, an oblong face forms and the voice rises a pitch. “All you need is to—”

The skin pales to almost a gray color and the hair turns spiky and blue, the voice deepening and it sounds like gravel being blended and Morty is trying not scream—

“—wake the _fuck **up, MORTY!”**_

Morty’s eyes snapped open and he shot up, gasping for air. Something yanked painfully out of the crease of his elbow as he frantically searched the room for Rick. There was a blood-stained labcoat thrown on a chair and some torn gloves in the trashcan but no sign of Rick.

He looked around him. He was on a table covered with a few layers of blankets on it, already soaked through with various bodily liquids. A plate with a few needles, syringes, and bits of thread was sitting a few feet away from him.

He panted, trembling slightly from the apparent acid trip he just had. The inside of his elbow was bleeding from the violent removal of the I.V needle. He swallowed, his throat painfully contracting the dehydrated muscles. He needed something to drink. He twisted slightly and there was a twinge of discomfort in his stomach.

Morty paused before looking down at navel, preparing to see whatever was left of his bowels.

Small, neat stitches extended from the bottom end of his sternum to an inch or two below his belly button, barely missing his groin. The raised tissue pinched together by black thread was thin and ropy, like twine or yarn. Some bandages were loosely wrapped around his waist, as if someone in middle of bandaging his wound was suddenly interrupted or forgot to finish.

_Oh. This isn’t bad at all._

Morty lightly traced his finger along the ridges and stitches, the bumps and curves of the scar

“MmmERGGGHorty, stop fucking with your stitches or you’ll mess them up,” Rick said as he stepped from the portal to stand beside Morty’s table. He took out a syringe filled with orange liquid and tilted Morty’s head to the side.

Morty pushed him away, wincing at the slight pain in his gut as he stretched his abdominal muscles. He growled.

“Oh no, Rick. I-I almost _died_ from that-that alien sedative or painkiller you gave me and so then you gave me some adrenaline or epinephrine or whatever and now you wanna put _more_ stuff in me?” He shoved Rick  Rick, I went on an acid trip for-for- what time is it?”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Morty, I’m not an idiot like you. I accidently put the dosage of the painkiller for someone with a high tolerance. And I know what’s in here.” He pointed to the syringe in his hand. “As for how long you were under, or tripping-- wow, that must’ve been a _really_ high dosage for you to have an _acid trip—_ it’s been like five or six hours, roughly speaking.”

“ ** _Six_** _hours_?”

“Yeaahh. Like I said, it was a pretty high dosage. I’m surprised you didn’t die. Actually, your heart _did_ stop for a minute or two so I gave you some adrenaline—” He paused and turned to look Morty over questioningly. “Wait, how do you know I gave you epinephrine? Last time I checked, you were higher than a pothead in a weed farm.”

Morty shrugged. “Some talking skull in my hallucination told me. It sounded just like you.” _Because it was your skull that spoke to me only seconds after you died and decayed in front of me._

“Talking skull, huh, Morty? Morty, do you-do you know how stupid you sound right now? H-how the fuck does that even make sense?”

“It-it was a-a drug trip, not a- not a vision quest, R-rick. They’re not-not supposed to make sense, j-jeez.”

“Okay, Morty, whatever you say. Can you stop being a pussy and-and let me inject this mysterious substance into your bloodstream?”

Morty sighed and showed Rick his arm. “Fine, Rick. But this better not make me trip again.”

Rick clicked his tongue as he stuck the needle into Morty’s forearm. “Eh. This probably won’t. It’s supposed to clear out the previous drugs’ effects and repair any damage to your intestines buuut if you start seeing sausage bunnies or biscuit hippos, lemme me know ‘kay?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, Rick.” He laid back on the bed-table and watched Rick clean up the mess on the worktable, a rag scrubbing away splotches of blood and grease. T _hat’s a rare sight_ , Morty thought. _Rick cleaning up his mess._

Morty looked to the side.

“Hey, Rick?”

“Hm?”

“Why were you so calm when my guts were all over the floor and I was, like, freaking out?”

“Because if _I_ had started to freak out then _you_ would’ve, would’ve freaked out even more,” Rick snapped. “And then you would’ve torn your small intestine open in your panic attack of trying to shove your insides back inside your body. _Someone_ needed to keep a cool head so you didn’t get more panicked than you already were.”

Morty rubbed his arm. “Rick, you were-you were talking about how pretty my guts looked like bleeding all over the floor. It-it really creeped me out, okay? Do-do you get a kick out of seeing me get hurt or something? Like-like a sadist?”

Rick slowly turned around and leaned against the work table, pinching the bridge of his nose as he spoke.

“No, Morty. I don’t- I do _not_ ‘get a kick’ out of seeing you get hurt.” He shook his head. “In fact, I often feel the exact opposite—”, Rick coughed into his fist.

“I mean, why the _fuck_ would you think I like seeing you get hurt.” He leaned over Morty and poked him in the chest repeatedly. “Do-do you think I’m a serial killer or something, huh, Morty? Do you really think that, Morty? Do you? _Do you_?”

Morty frowned and brushed away Rick’s finger. “No, Rick. I don’t think you’re a serial killer. You’re-you’re just an asshole. But why would you-you…” Morty trailed off as his eyes began to focus on a point over Rick’s shoulder. His eyes widened in terror. He suddenly clutched to Rick’s lab coat and sweater, forcing Rick to lean closer to him as he started rambling and stuttering.

“Morty, what the _fuck_ -”

“Ohshitohshit. I just s-saw a sausage bunny. Oh, god _,_ I-I don’t wanna t-trip again, Rick. Make it stop, make it _stop_ —.”

His eyes were bulging, as if they were going to pop out of his sockets. Rick pushed off Morty’s trembling hands and began to search his labcoat pockets. Morty had directed his hands into pulling his hair and covering his eyes, muttering about bacon storks and biscuit hippos.

Rick fished out some green pills from chest pocket and forced them in to Morty’s mouth. Morty’s eyes locked on to his face, wide and frightened.

“Swallow,” he ordered.

Morty obeyed. He gulped dryly, clearing his throat as they went down his esophagus.

A few seconds passed in silence as Morty stared dumbly at Rick, eyes glazed.

Then he fell backwards on to the table, a sharp crack snapping throughout the garage. Rick winced.

_Maybe I should’ve put a pillow under him._

Morty began to snore, mouth partially open with drool beginning to inch out of a corner of his lips. Rick shrugged and took a swig of his flask, pulling a blanket over Morty and shoving another folded one under his head.

_Meh, he’ll be fine._

Rick watched Morty’s eyes flicker under his eyelids.

_Probably._

**Author's Note:**

> Rick has this weird fascination/kink with blood and gore. He doesn’t want Morty to know because it’s Personal And Weird. Morty wakes up like an hour or two later, hallucination-free. He has a scar on his stomach now. He thinks it looks kinda cool. Rick frowns/squints at it whenever he sees it.
> 
> Morty bitches to Rick about the acid trip and intestinal surgery thing for about thirty seconds before Rick tells him to shut the fuck up. He tries to ask Rick about the blood kink thing again. Rick dances around it until he gets tired of it and tells Morty to either forget about it or to shut the fuck up. Probably both.
> 
> Constructive Criticism and Comment are appreciated. Thank you.


End file.
